


In Nobody's Eyes but Mine

by bofurrific



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Also known as, Everyone else knows better, HYDRA Trash Party, If You Squint - Freeform, Lima Syndrome, Look who's back oh fuck it's me, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, a rapist, brock rumlow thinks he's the hero of this story, by which i mean brock rumlow is a rapist, even after this i still consider myself to be trash lite, i am recyclable, just because it's not violent doesn't mean it's not rape, mildly happy ending, my terrible butchering of REAL lima syndrome, or - Freeform, sorry brandon flowers, while drunk, who is in love with his victim, yes it's the killers again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:48:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4119067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock Rumlow thinks he's the Hero of this story.</p><p>Trash Prompt from FOREVER ago that I promised to do but apparently it required me being in a Very Bad Place to be able to do it. </p><p>"Someone HYDRA thinks their garbage is a healthy romantic dinner for two."</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Nobody's Eyes but Mine

Brock gets touchy during the Parties. He doesn't like to participate, not that he has any _problem_ with making love in front of his teammates, but the soldier, _his_ soldier, acts differently when the others are around. He's shy under steel and hot flesh, exactly how Brock likes them, but he goes stiff and awkward with STRIKE leering at him. And Brock's a decent guy, he wants his sweetheart to be comfortable. After all, he and his soldier are in love.

 

* * *

 

1. 

The soldier has the prettiest lips Brock has ever seen. He likes to run his thumb over the thick bottom lip, smearing saliva and come and sometimes blood over the tender flesh. The soldier's eyes flutter closed and Brock could just sigh over how beautiful he is, a goddamned work of art. 

He's _nice_ when they fuck him, goes last so they end the evening on a good note, Brock strokes the sweaty flank, trembling muscles relaxing under his touch, and he grins and noses into the tangle of matted hair, a sweet press of kisses to the back of the soldier's neck. Brock fucks him with gentle strokes to the jeers of his teammates, cries that he's making sweet love to their dog, like the soldier is nothing more than a flesh and bone gun. He ignores them, turns the soldier over so he can look into that face, and those empty blue eyes seem full when they lock onto his own, and Brock's breath catches.

He leans down, catches those full lips in a kiss, and when the soldier leans up into his touch, pretty mouth parting to let him in, he _knows_. _He's mine._

 

* * *

2.

Brock isn't stupid enough to stop the Parties. Alexander Pierce is a ruthless old bastard (a ruthless old bastard Brock would follow into the fire to their brave new world, but a ruthless old bastard just the same) and he likes to get his rocks off. But he doesn't participate so much anymore. Not now that he knows there's so much _more_ between his soldier and himself. He mostly watches, stops the men who get too into it with the excuse that they can't damage such valuable merchandise, all the while biting back the snarl behind clenched teeth. _Don't touch what is mine._

And after he gives his soldier the sweet touches, hand on his hip and mouths pressed together so he knows who he really belongs to, and sends him off to cryo like a parent sending a kid to bed after a goodnight kiss, and he goes home satisfied with himself.

Sometimes people overstep their bounds. They're not supposed to touch the soldier outside the parties. Some greenhorn little shits think they're fucking clever, one in every group. Brock catches Maggio, some dumb 19 year-old who only made the cut because he knows bombs like nobody's business, with _his_ soldier in a back alley after a mission, leaning against the brick wall with his pants around his thighs. He's got a hand fisted in dark locks, and his head is falling back in bliss as he pumps his hips into the soldier's face.

Brock sees fucking red. He storms over and grabs Maggio by the throat, knocking his face to the side with a slap that leaves the boy spitting blood around a shriek of surprise and pain. It's warning enough, but Brock doesn't stop there. Maggio is barely breathing by the Brock realizes what he's doing and stops punching the pulpy mass of flesh that used to be a face. He shakes it off. "You don't touch what is mine." He spits, before turning back to his soldier, still kneeling patiently where he was left.

He looks a little shaken, Brock thinks, so he crouches close by, gets a hand on the back of his neck, and pulls him close enough to tilt their foreheads together. "You're okay, I've got you," he murmurs, peppering the pale face with quick, closed-mouth kisses. "I've got you." And the adrenaline's got him hard, pulsing insistently in the awkward angle of the crouch, and his soldier is already there, mouth red and wet from the earlier _abuse_. He loves Brock, even if he hasn't said so yet (he's scared, of course, to admit it, Brock understands, hell he's scared too) so Brock guides that willing open mouth to his need, pets the hair under his fingers and groans softly as he finishes.

He kisses his seed from his soldier's pretty mouth and works quickly at the fasteners of the thick canvas pants keeping him from his love's cock. He's not hard, but Brock doesn't worry. After all, he was just being... being _violated_ by fucking Maggio. Brock can make it all better. He hasn't had a cock in his mouth in years but the mechanics never change. Like riding a fucking bike. His soldier's hands clench into fists that dig crescents into his palms and Brock smirks around his mouthful. He always knew he was good at this.

His soldier comes down his throat to the rhythm of Maggio's rattling breathing until it slows down. Until it stops.

 

* * *

 

3.

Brock says it with every touch, fingertips trailing down his soldier's thighs, the pads of his fingers pressing like butterflies over ribs, backs of knees, powerful jawline. He says it with kisses to matted dark hair, inner wrists, and metal palms, planting seeds of love in his soldier's throat and mouth that blossom between them. The words haven't come just yet, beating in Brock's heart and through his veins, but he says it with every thrust of his hips, every bite of his teeth sinking into flesh shoulder, every scrape of nails down muscled back.

Sometimes they lay afterwards, Brock stroking his soldier's hair away from his pretty face, slack with release, and breathe together and he can _taste_ the words, they're so close, so heavy on his tongue, that he knows his soldier can feel them in the air between their panting mouths.

The way his soldier looks at him, with warmth and softness, makes Brock's heart shiver in his chest, like he's thirteen again and his first crush, Emma Johnson, brushes his fingers when she hands him the spare pencil he asked to borrow. She never looked at him this way though. _No one's_ ever looked at him this way and he feels awed, humbled, by being the one to receive his soldier's love.

And he's scared, of _course_ he's scared of his own feelings, of his soldier's, because love is fucking scary, love ruins and rebuilds and he feels it so desperately he could scream sometimes. And sometimes it takes everything to keep holding it in, when he's shaking with adrenaline after their lovemaking or they finish a mission. He bites his tongue until he bleeds to keep from screaming it on every rooftop.

The first time the ice takes his soldier from him since they realized they were in love, Brock grabs him before they can prep him, pulls him to an empty room and kisses him hard. "I love you," he hisses, harsh and gasping against that red mouth, and he pulls back to stare at those quiet blue eyes, desperate and shaking, as his soldier blinks a few times -he's in _shock_ of course, with everything happening- but when he opens his mouth, Brock's heart melts and eyes spark with tears of relief and adoration he'd never let anyone see: _I love_ _you_.

The ice takes his soldier for awhile but Brock goes to bed, touches his cock and his lips and hears the words over and over. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

* * *

 

4.

Being Team Lead has some fucking perks. And one of those is being in charge of the soldier. To others in the past, it had been a burden, having to keep track of the wild killing machine, to be both the finger on the trigger and the lion-tamer when the mission has ended. But Brock has an advantage over the former leads. He and the soldier are in love, not just commander and asset, but lovers, _soulmates_.

Brock takes his soldier by the hand and leads him off to their room in the safehouse, and Rollins snarls after him. _Going to give your pet a reward?_ The jab only makes Brock smirk. Rollins is bitter and it makes his soldier taste that much sweeter. Everyone knows Rollin's got a _thing_ for his leader. But Brock will never see anyone but his soldier.

They're barely through the bedroom door when Brock pushes his soldier against the wall and claims that pretty mouth, deep suckling kisses as he guides flesh and metal hands to his ass. So sweet, so _shy_ , he thinks as his soldier finally grips his ass, and he moans appreciatively against the questing tongue in his mouth, moans loud enough for Rollins to hear him downstairs and pauses to smirk when he hears the distant answering swear and crash of Rollins hurling something against a wall in frustration. But that's not what this is about. Rollins doesn't fucking matter. Only the sweet soldier in his arms.

Brock strips them slowly, reveling each inch of pale flesh, rippling with power just beneath the skin. His soldier was so _good_ for him on this mission and despite Rollins' words, he _does_ want to give him a little reward. So he gently guides his lover onto the bed and presses him down onto the mattress. He kisses his way down the scarred chest, pausing to chew on pretty pink nipples until they're swollen and puffy under his tongue and his soldier's breath catches, metal fingers twitching. Brock smiles against the skin and keeps moving down, nipping at abs, flicking his tongue into the navel and feeling downright giddy at the little jolt it incites, until he reaches his prize.

The soldier has a fucking beautiful cock, long and pink and half-hard as Brock nuzzles the soft head just starting to peek out from beneath the foreskin. He takes it in his mouth and suckles, moaning as his soldier hardens against his tongue. He's hard too, thick and swollen between his legs, but he doesn't give a fuck about his own arousal when his soldier is arching into his touch, hands clenched in fist tight enough to make his palm bleed so he doesn't hurt Brock. And that's gratifying enough. He'll get his own release now: the only thing that matters is swallowing his soldier's seed as he shoot it and collapses backward.

Brock doesn't bother to wipe his mouth, crawling up his sweetheart's body to kiss him, to pull him close and spoon him. His soldier's heart is pounding, never quite slows back to normal, and Brock drifts off with his face tucked into his lover's neck.

 

* * *

 

5.

Things are getting bad. The closer they are to the finish line, the tenser everyone is. They start making mistakes. Lives are lot due to anxiety and carelessness on missions. Pierce is pissed, keeps running them ragged. They get put with the gorgeously defrosted Captain America (and yes, Brock has some impure thoughts, mind straying from his love more than once during the night, but he chalks it up to his soldier being kept under lock and key more than usual. He _misses_ his lover so much, of course he's bound to have a wet dream or two in his absence.) and are ordered to get close to him to keep him off their scent.

They're so _close_. They're so close Brock can taste the freedom of the new world, where he can be with his lover in the open, can kiss him in the streets without a care as to who sees. No more ice to pull them apart, no more Parties, which he's grown to hate, has trouble keeping himself from pulling a bullet between the eyes of every man who touches what is his, Alexander Pierce be godfuckingdamned.

The next time his soldier is brought out from the ice, everything is moving, everything is going wrong. Captain fucking America is proving to be a big a pain in the ass as he was always revered to be. He's _fucking everything up_ and if he gets between Brock and his sweetheart... There will be no hope for him. Seventy years in the ice is nothing, _nothing_ compared to what Brock will do to him.

And there's no time to make love. Things are clicking into place and gears are turning and some of the wheels need greased and obstacles need removed and there isn't any time for Brock to show his soldier how much he loves him, how much he needs him. And his soldier _knows_ Rogers, or _knew_ him anyhow and Brock feels unendingly jealous and hurt. He wants to grab his soldier and make him forget every other name but his, rebuild his entire memory until he doesn't know anything but _Brock_ and _I love you._ And there isn't fucking _time_.

And then it's the night before. It's the night before everything goes down and Brock is sitting, grumpy and frustrated in a bunk at their base, his soldier sitting beside him, head in his lap. They have a moment and his dick doesn't want to work, too stressed out to fill with blood and he's too twitchy to tug his lover over and eat him out until he's sobbing. So they sit.

Until his soldier moves first. He stands, hesitant, that sweet shyness Brock loves so much, and crouches into Brock's lap, tilts his head up with a newfound boldness that makes his heart swell, and captures his lips in a kiss. Brock gasps into his lover's mouth, hands reaching up to clutch at him. A body-heated metal hand slips beneath his pants and strokes slowly, coaxes his stubborn cock into hardness. And then his soldier is riding him, and Brock isn't going to last, so full of love and fear and need that he comes crying, presses his face into his soldier's chest and weeps. _I love you, I love you so much._

It will all be over soon, and they'll be free.

 

* * *

 

+1 Truth

The soldier is not supposed to feel fear. Weapons do not fear. And if he cannot feel fear, he cannot also feel relief. This feeling, this lightness in his chest that spreads through his fingertips -metal and flesh alike- and down his spine cannot be relief. The Commander is gone, crushed beneath the building that housed his icy prison, his cryochamber.

No more hollowly repeated words _I love you_ as if they had any meaning, as if they were real words. No more standing stock still as the Commander plundered his mouth, looking to taste himself on the weapon's tongue, or digging his nails into his palms to keep from wiggling away when the Commander's mouth finds his own cock. Mechanical bodily functions seemed to spur the Commander on. The soldier hated them. He had always known his place, their weapon, their tool, did as he was told, even if he wasn't always told in words. _Suck my cock, kill anyone who gets in our way, I love you, two targets top priority, kiss me, fuck me, break their fingers until they give us the answers, I love you, kill Nick Fury, I love youdoasyou'retoldIloveyouswipehimandstartoverIloveyouIloveyouYOUKNOWME._

Weapons don't fear, so weapons cannot feel relief. But the Commander is gone and the soldier feels....

_Free._

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a good depiction of Lima Syndrome, wherein a captor falls in love with their hostages. Brock Rumlow is just a rapist.
> 
> I almost gifted this to someone but that felt passive aggressive.


End file.
